Jack Daniels
by r4ven3
Summary: Another one shot set in S8-ish, perhaps late in the series. An AU scenario. Now 6 chapters.
1. Chapter 1

"Pardon?"

"You heard me."

"Jack Daniels?"

"That's the lad's name."

"So he's joining our little clique?"

He smiles then, the memory of their long ago discussion about what collective noun best describes the Grid personnel having popped into his mind. "Jack Daniels joins our ... Brotherhood on Monday." As he utters the word, `Brotherhood', her eyes dart up to hold his, so he hesitates, mining the moment. "We have him on a three month secondment before he returns to Tunisia."

"Who'd call their son after ... a whiskey," she muses.

"His parents are missionaries ... in Sudan."

"You're making this up."

She has no idea how close to the truth she is, but he smiles across his desk to where she's perched on the sofa. He's happy that, like him, she appears to be enjoying the mild banter. "It's true," he says. "He's requested he be free to return to Tunisia in three months." Harry sits up in his chair, looking behind him to the whiskey bottle on the shelf. "Drink?" he asks.

Ruth checks her watch. "Isn't it a bit .. early?"

"It's almost 7. I'd call that a late start."

Harry stands, turns, and pours a drink for each of them - two fingers for Ruth, and a generous splash for himself. With a glass in each hand he joins her on the sofa, before handing her her glass. "Tell me this isn't Jack Daniels whiskey," she says.

Harry reacts as though shocked. "Of course not. Jack Daniels is an American brand."

"Sorry," she says sheepishly, "I thought all whiskeys were the same."

He shakes his head slowly, before lifting his glass towards hers so that they gently clink in a toast.

"What was that for?" she asks.

"No-one died today." He quaffs his drink. The whiskey warms him, all the way from his mouth, down his throat, and then to his stomach, from where the warmth spreads throughout his abdomen. "Delightful." He glances at Ruth, who hasn't tried hers. "Drink up."

"I'm not sure I should."

"Live dangerously, Ruth."

"Haven't you just had your yearly medical?" Harry rolls his eyes. "That bad?"

Ruth reaches out, perhaps unconsciously, and places her hand on his knee. He drops his eyes to her hand, which she immediately withdraws. "It's alright, Ruth," he says, lifting his eyes to hers. "Other than handshakes and back-slaps, that's the first time anyone's touched me in weeks .. perhaps even months." He holds her eyes, silently willing her to return her hand to his knee. "Although it could be said," he continues quietly, "that the section doctor's examination of certain parts of my person was a form of touch, just not what I .." and he can't finish the sentence, thinking that maybe he should keep his random thoughts to himself. Taking his eyes from hers, he sighs heavily. "Perhaps I'm rebelling against doctor's orders."

"Which were?"

"The usual ..."

"Cut down on alcohol and sweet foods, get more exercise."

Harry grimaces. "I don't know when I'm expected to exercise. It's not as though my job is nine to five." Glancing back at the glass resting between his fingers he sees that he's already drunk half his whiskey in the time it has taken Ruth to turn her glass around between her fingers, touch his knee, and then just as quickly withdraw her hand. "He suggested I limit any alcohol intake to weekends."

"Today is Thursday."

"I'm practising for the weekend." He's relieved when she smiles.

"I'm sure you don't drink enough to have withdrawal symptoms."

"Not physically, no, but .."

"You rely on it emotionally."

Again he sighs. "Put like that, I sound weak."

Ruth drops her eyes to her whiskey glass, still untouched. "You could never be called weak."

He detects a subtle change in the air between them, a slight shifting of the earth's axis. The setting is hardly romantic, but if he knows her well, Ruth is, in her own indirect way, telling him that she is - perhaps - open to some of what he offers. Except that it is months since he has offered her anything, and when he had, she'd uttered a definitive no. He knows his timing is terrible, and he imagines their relationship to be something other than what it is.

He also suspects he has waited too long to act.

"Why is Jack Daniels returning to London for three months?" Ruth asks. "Surely it can't just be because we're an agent short."

He drops his eyes to his drink, determined to resist the pull of the alcohol. "He experienced some ... personal difficulties," he says carefully, "and then when his partner moved in with someone else, he asked for extended leave. That was two months ago, and he's been back in London this past month. I'm told he's attempting to dry out before returning to Tunisia."

"So .." Ruth says quietly, lifting her eyes to his, "we're like a rehab centre?"

Harry smiles, turning towards her. Her pupils are wide, and a slight smile turns her lips. For a long moment they watch each other, until Harry wonders should he take a chance and reach out to touch her. He could grasp her hand in his. He'd rather kiss her, but they're still at work, in his office, and while it might be the right time, it's hardly the right place.

"Harry ..." Ruth says, holding his eyes, "what's wrong?"

He can't possibly tell her the truth. The truth is that he's wasted every opportunity he's had with her, either by his poor timing, or inaction, and he's about to do it all over again. "I'm just a bit tired, Ruth. It's been a long week so far."

He _is_ tired, and it _has_ been a long week, but that's not the real source of his melancholy. He can't tell her about the longing he has for her - the long working days when he's determined to occupy his mind so that thoughts of her creep in only occasionally, and the longer nights spent wondering will they ever find their way to one another. In a world where hatred appears to lurk in every corner, finding love with another is a gift which shouldn't be denied.

"I wonder whether Jack Daniels has been seconded to us to ... watch us, and report back."

Harry shakes his head. Is she mocking him? Are her words a reference to when she'd first joined Section D as a GCHQ mole? That had been over seven years ago, a lifetime in intelligence terms. "If he is then he needs to slot it in between his tasks. I plan to team him with Lucas. That way they can each ..."

".. keep an eye on each other?" Harry nods, before draining his glass. "Does Lucas know about this?"

Harry stands, turning to face Ruth. "Do you need a top up?" When she shakes her head, he strides across the office to his drinks cabinet, before sloshing another generous measure of whiskey into his glass. When he returns to the sofa, he again sits beside Ruth, but this time he sits close enough so that their bodies almost touch. The slightest movement from either of them could have their shoulders or thighs touching. He is testing her. Were their bodies to touch and she doesn't move away, his chances are good. If she deliberately puts distance between them, then the time is not right. Harry is surprised by his own level of optimism. He is sure she loves him. He just has to choose the right moment to address the issue.

Then there is Jack Daniels. For the young man's safety, he should keep the information to himself, but he needs to share something with her, something no-one else knows, even the young man's mother. He needs to demonstrate to Ruth that he trusts her above all others. Placing his glass of whiskey on the floor beside the sofa, he stands and crosses the floor to his desk, where he opens a folder, and removes a photograph the size of a postcard. When he is again seated beside Ruth, he hands the photograph to her.

"This is Jack Daniels," he says quietly, keeping his eyes on her as she scrutinises the image.

"He looks .. young," she says after a long silence while she gazes at the serious face of the new recruit, his eyes staring at the camera.

He turns slightly on the sofa, so that he is half-facing her. Their knees almost touch, but he can't allow her proximity to distract him. "His real name isn't Jack Daniels. He chose that legend himself."

"That's not unheard of, Harry. Many of those who work overseas use legends."

He takes a deep breath, then holds her eyes. "I am the only one who knows his real name, but I think - given your knack for uncovering truths - that you also need to know who he is." Seeing her eyebrows wrinkling in a frown, he knows he needs to word this revelation carefully and sensitively. He swallows. "Jack Daniels - as a name - is ironic. His real name is Graham Pearce. He's my son."

Harry watches as Ruth's face changes - from surprise to shock, then confusion, and then eventually, having slotted all the various pieces together, she smiles. "He's chosen that name deliberately," she says, and he nods.

As if the walls have ears, Harry also speaks quietly. "I'm the only one who knows his identity. Even his mother believes he's just completed a degree in computer science, and he's travelling for a few months." He hesitates, carefully choosing his words, watching Ruth while she examines the photograph of his son, perhaps searching for a family resemblance. Then he continues quietly, relieved to be talking about this with her. "He - Jack, Graham - has taken a long time to find his feet. He's had a drug and alcohol problem since his mid teens. He got off the drugs, but he still uses alcohol to ... deal with stressful situations."

"Like you," she says quietly, and then he is surprised and pleased when she reaches out and grasps his hand. His whiskey glass on the floor beside the sofa is forgotten. What is now happening is so much more important than the instant gratification provided by alcohol. He grasps her fingers between his, just in case she backs off. "Why would he want to work with you?" she asks, curling her fingers around his.

"I asked him the same thing. I suspect he wants to make my life difficult, but he told me he wants to `learn the craft' - his words. He's never before shown an interest in what I do. He even applied and completed the training without my knowledge, so when he rang me, asking could he begin in Section D, my first response was to say no, definitely not."

"Why? How better for him to learn than from his father?"

Harry sighs, his eyes roaming over Ruth's face - from her eyes, to her hair, then down her nose to her mouth. For a moment he believes her mouth to be calling him, drawing him to her. He resists the pull of her body, now so close to his that they share the same body warmth. "I've never wanted my children to follow in my footsteps. I viewed his interest in computer technology as a good thing. Now he's saying that if field work doesn't suit him, he can take a sideways step into technical support."

"Does he have the qualifications?"

"Almost. He only has one semester before he completes his Masters degree." Again their eyes meet, and so much more passes between them than can be conveyed in words.

"You don't have the right to deny him his dreams, Harry. If he wants to do this, you have to allow him."

"I know I do, but ... this section has a really bad record," and he hopes she understands what he means. When she nods, he continues, his voice quiet. "I don't want my son to die on some ... senseless operation." Seeing the surprise in her eyes, he feels the need to qualify his statement. "You have to admit, Ruth, that Colin's death was stupid and unnecessary, as was Jo's."

Suddenly Ruth's eyes are clouded by sad memories. While George hadn't been an intelligence agent, his death had been senseless - senseless and unnecessary. "We can't bring them back, Harry. We all know the risks this job brings. Does your son?"

"He does, because I told him. I related every work-related death for the past ten years, but still he wants to do this."

"Then you must stand back and treat him as you'd treat any of us."

Harry nods, squeezing her hand. "But I treat you differently, Ruth."

"That's because I'm an analyst."

"That's not the reason, no." _And you know it,_ he thinks. The moment quickly passes.

"Perhaps equally as difficult for you will be to remember to call him Jack."

Harry smiles. He'll have no trouble with that. It's `Jack' being in a life-threatening operation which could potentially unhinge him. While he knows he should declare to management that Jack Daniels is his son, and that there could be a conflict of interest, he doesn't want to. "I suspect he's attempting to impress me," he says quietly.

"Of course he's hoping to impress you, Harry. I suspect that's the very reason he asked to work in this section.

Harry nods agreement. "If his mother gets wind of this, she'll ..." He can't even begin to imagine what Jane would do were she to discover where their son has chosen to work for three months. Castration might be high on her list of chosen penalties for him.

"Then let's hope she never finds out," Ruth says, again squeezing his hand, before pulling her hand from his and standing. "I should go home," she says. "There's a bus in fifteen minutes."

Harry quickly stands, taking the glass from Ruth's fingers, while forgetting that his own glass is still on the floor beside the sofa. "I can take you home, Ruth. I just have to call my driver."

"I can take the bus. It's no trouble." He notices that she's avoiding eye contact with him.

"Ruth," he says firmly, "please allow me to take you home. You've ... helped me tonight by listening to me, and I'd like to do something for you."

She turns then, lifting her eyes to his. "Is that all we are, Harry? People who do things for one another?"

"You know we're much more than that." She's still watching him, and so he throws away all caution. "Even if you don't acknowledge it, we're much more than co-workers, and we're much more than friends."

"I know we are."

"Then why can't you accept a ride home?"

She drops her eyes, but he sees the smile on her lips. "Very well," she says. "Perhaps we need to talk some more about Section D's latest recruit."

He moves closer to her, until they are almost touching. "I can think of much more interesting topics of conversation."

Ruth lifts her eyes, and he's relieved to see that she's smiling. "Such as?"

"Why don't I ring my driver, then on the way home I can share some of what I've been thinking."

He's pleased to see a flash of surprise pass across her face, along with a blush on her cheeks, and then when he steps away from her to make the call on his desk phone, she appears momentarily lost. The drive home could be very interesting indeed.

He finishes making the call. "Thomas is already downstairs," he says. "Ready?" He reaches out with his elbow, not really expecting her to respond, but she slips her hand through his arm, as she grabs her bag from over the back of a chair.

"Your son doesn't look much like you," she says, as they leave the office.

Harry stops, turning to look at her. "Perhaps from now on, we should refer to him as Jack."

"Of course. Jack doesn't look much like you."

They continue to the lifts, and are almost there when again he stops, turning towards her. "Jack looks uncannily like my late brother, Ben. He has the same long nose and thin face .. like our father."

Ruth nods, and Harry is surprised by his own personal revelations. Even with Ruth, it is unlike him to allude to his family members. They continue to the lift, and he presses the button to take them to the ground floor. Inside the lift he steps beside her, close enough that his arm rests against hers. When she doesn't move away from his touch, his level of optimism lifts even further.

"When we get to my flat," Ruth says quietly, staring ahead, "would you like to join me for a coffee ... to soak up the whiskey?"

"I would," he says.

Just then the lift reaches the ground floor, and they leave together, still standing close. When they are met by Harry's driver they are both relaxed and smiling.

"Thomas?" Harry says.

"Sir Harry. Ms Evershed. Your car's out front," so they follow him out the double doors and into the night.

They are settled beside one another in the back seat of the car, and this time Harry takes Ruth's hand and rests it on his knee. When she doesn't pull away, he silently admits that while for the next three months he could be facing all shades of hell, on this night he is a happy man.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: Uncharacteristically, I caved, and so there are now maybe 5 more chapters of this fic. Even I could see that the one shot had potential for more, but as reluctant as I normally am to stretch out the original idea, I thought this one could do with exploration. So here is Chapter 2. And since Ros Myers makes an appearance or two, it is now set late in S8.**_

* * *

8 days later - Friday afternoon:

Jack Daniels stifles a yawn.

"This job is not exactly compatible with a social life," his minder says, her eyes on the road ahead.

"It's not because I've been up late," he explains, "because I haven't. I sometimes have difficulty sleeping."

It's the long working days, but he's not about to admit to that. He can't bear to be thought of as soft. He'd worked hard during his training, but even that hadn't prepared him for the long days, and unpredictable meal times.

"How did you find working with Lucas?" she asks, still not looking his way. Ros Myers is a skillful driver, and he feels safe with her, but chiefly because he's on her side. He'd hate to be her enemy.

"He's a bit .. odd," Jack says at last, deciding to be honest, but not blunt.

"Sometimes, in this business, odd is good."

Jack would like to ask Ros about Harry - what kind of boss he is, what she thinks of him - but given he's meant to be no relation to the boss, he'd best wait and watch. He'd also like to ask about the relationship Ruth has with Harry, because there's something there, some connection which frequently draws them together, but he daren't say anything to anyone. Again, he'd best just say nothing and keep his eyes open.

Harry has treated him like anyone else who'd joined his team as a new recruit; he is distant and cool. Jack, on the other hand, has been keeping his eye on Harry, assessing his role, and how he handles relationships with members of his team. On the evening of his first day, Harry had rung him, calling him Jack, and asking about his early impressions of the job. It had been a stilted and surreal exchange.

"I hope you'll enjoy your time with Section D," Harry had said, "but you'll also need to pull your weight. Being new to the job doesn't count as an excuse."

"I enjoyed today, thanks," he'd said, wondering why he felt like he was being chastised. "I like Lucas, and he was generous with his ... advice."

"Not all Lucas's advice will be useful to you. He's a risk-taker, but he's a good agent, and you can learn a lot from him."

"I'm watching and learning," Jack had replied, having to stop himself from ending the sentence with `Dad.'

"Good. If you have any questions, then both Ros and Lucas are there to help you. And ... I've not passed on to anyone other than Ruth your supposed time in Tunisia, since that would give you skills you don't yet have."

"Thanks, but I'm sure I'll be fine."

That had been about it. Harry's voice had been distant and a little cold. Jack had wanted to ask his father if he could come to him for advice, but had decided against it. Best to not open himself to rejection. Harry's mention of Ruth had intrigued him then, and his clear reliance on her still interests him. He can't understand the bond between them, after all, Ruth seems nice - friendly and warm - and Harry is still a cold bastard.

Ros's voice breaks into his thoughts.

"When we meet with Jamieson," she says, "I need you to listen to what I say and how I say it while keeping your eyes on him. Staring at an asset like Jamieson is good. It makes them uncomfortable. Remember, there'll be questions afterwards."

Jack almost laughs. He wants to ask her is she for real, but he knows she is, so he says nothing.

Todd Jamieson is a thirty-something, jeans-and-hoodie-wearing, skinny dude with a nose ring and an attitude. Ros peppers him with questions, which he avoids, giving answers which amount to nothing.

"Tell me everything you know about the Mostafa brothers," Ros says at last, while Jack keeps his eyes on Jamieson.

"Don't know nuthin'," Jamieson says, shrugging skinny shoulders.

"You've been seen in _The Cartwheel_ with Karim Mostafa, and the two of you seemed rather friendly, so what has he told you?"

"Nuthin' much."

"You've spent a lot of time talking about nothing. Is he converting you?"

Jamieson looks at her then, clearly scandalised. "In your dreams, bitch!"

Ros steps so close to him that he steps back a little, drawing his face away from hers. "What. Has. He. Told. You. Todd?" Her words are like pistol shots.

"About what?"

"You know about what."

Jamieson's body relaxes slightly. "If I tell you, what's in it for me?"

Just like that, Ros Myers had managed to get this bloke to cave, although Jack can see that Todd Jamieson is not the sharpest tool in the toolbox. Jamieson rattles off a date, place and time, and then grins.

"If you're telling the truth, I can get you a safe place to stay, and if you're lying, then Tiger here", and Ros turns to look at Jack, "will tear out your liver."

Jack recognises a parting shot when he hears one, and so he turns on his heel at the same time as Ros turns, and together they march away from Jamieson. For a brief moment, Jack feels like he's living in a scene from _Reservoir Dogs_ ; he's probably Mr Pink, while Ros is Mr - or Ms - Orange. For the time it takes them to stride along the pavement to the car, Jack feels invincible. He resists the urge to turn to check whether Jamieson is watching them.

"That was hardly a victory," Ros says, as she starts the car, and Jack experiences a moment of embarrassment. The bloody woman can read his mind! "I chose Jamieson because he's a blabbermouth, and hopeless with money. He's a gambler, so he's always short, and prepared to sell his grandmother for a few quid."

"Is he telling the truth?"

"What do you think?"

"By his change in attitude when he asked what was in it for him, then I'd say yes."

"Good call. Still, we won't know for sure until next Friday night." Ros waits only a few seconds before continuing. "I have another asset I'd like to speak to about the Mostafa brothers, and this time you might like to do the talking."

* * *

John Becker is different from Todd Jamieson in every way. For a start, he has a job. He's a barman at _The Cartwheel_ , and although it's a working class pub, Becker likes to dress up. He's a solidly built, stocky man in his early forties, decked out in black trousers, black long-sleeved shirt, and a red bow tie. On his fingers he wears several rings, all of them showy.

"Given this is your patch, John," Jack begins, "I expect that you'd know if anything were going down here." Noting Becker standing just that little bit straighter, his eyes shining, Jack continues in the same vein. "These chaps," he says, showing Becker a photograph of the Mostafa brothers, "are known to drink here. I was wondering whether you'd overheard anything .. either from them, or from any of your staff who may have overheard them talking. I'm talking about plans they might have."

John Becker grabs a glass and pours himself a half of lager. "Want one?" he asks Jack, who shakes his head. Becker drinks from the glass before placing it on the bar. "Those two are the strangest Muslims I've ever met. They both drink orange juice, but with a splash of vodka. I keep an eye on anyone who's a foreigner. You never know with foreigners, right? Trouble, the lot of them."

And remarkably, John Becker offers similar information to that provided by Todd Jamieson.

"Is it always this easy?" Jack asks Ros as they head back to Thames House. When Ros laughs a short, snorting kind of laugh, Jack experiences a moment of discomfort. Maybe he'd asked a stupid question. In training he'd learned that the job could be dangerous, and exciting. So far it had been a trifle dull and repetitious, and he's still waiting for things to kick into a higher gear.

"Believe me," Ros says, glancing at him, "you don't want unpredictable or dangerous. Do you have a wife .. a girlfriend?"

Jack feels like he's been punched in the stomach. This is the first time anyone has asked him anything about his personal life. "Two months ago my girlfriend dumped me by email. I have no-one, other than parents who are both in Africa, and a sister whom I hardly ever see."

At least part of that is true. Holly had dumped him just before he'd begun his training with Mi5, and while he usually sees his mother around once a month, until now, he'd rarely seen his father. His sister is currently in France, and he hasn't seen her in months.

"Sorry," Ros says, in a voice which sounds anything but sorry. "It might be best that your girlfriend threw you over. Close relationships are difficult to maintain in this job."

"You're not married?"

"Christ, no."

"What about you and Lucas?"

"What about us?"

"You seem close."

"We're all quite close in Section D. To the outside world, the relationships in our section may appear somewhat incestuous. To be able to do the work we do, we have to be able to trust one another."

Against his better judgement, Jack asks the very question which has spent the best part of a week sitting on the tip of his tongue. "The boss and his analyst seem close. Is there more going on there?"

"I really wouldn't know, nor do I care, and nor should you. This isn't the university bar. It's not a place where people gather in order to hook up with someone."

Jack receives her words like a slap. He'd better toughen up if he wants to continue working at Section D. "I'm not trying to .. hook up."

"I gathered that, Jack, but neither is anyone else. We are all first and foremost professionals. Harry has to work closely with his intelligence analyst, and he trusts her. I have no idea if they are anything more than colleagues, and frankly, nor do I care."

And that is that. Subject closed.

"You did well with Becker," Ros says after a long silence. "If my instincts are correct, you're a natural."

Jack says nothing more. He's happy to be ending the afternoon on a high note.

* * *

"How do you think Jack handled his first week?" Ruth asks, having placed a folder containing her report on the corner of Harry's desk. Since the night when she'd been driven home by Harry's driver, and Harry had joined her for coffee in her flat, they had only spoken to one another about work. They had both been busy at work, and more than that, Ruth had been sensitive to how worried Harry is about having his son working in the section.

Harry sits back in his chair, lifting his eyes to her. She notices a relaxing in his body, a wave of calm which passes through him as he looks at her, and she feels a responding warmth rising from her belly, through her chest and neck to her face. She prays that he can't see how affected she is by his scrutiny. She is just about to ask: `Is it warm in here?', but manages to hold her tongue.

"Would you like a drink?" he asks, ignoring her question.

"I really shouldn't. I need to get home, and put my clothes through the wash. I've almost run out of things to wear." Noticing the surprise on Harry's face, she rattles off a ready apology. "I'm sorry. I should have edited that."

Harry smiles into her eyes. Although their brief evening together in her flat had been chaste, and careful, and rather sweet, the memory of it has remained with them in the days since, and Ruth is looking forward to when they are both free to do it again.

"I'd offer to drive you home, but the Home Secretary wants to see me at seven." Ruth nods, relieved that the Home Secretary never wants to meet with her at odd hours. "And as for Jack Daniels, Ros and Lucas have both assured me that he's shaping up well, although he hasn't yet been fully tested in the field." Harry lifts his eyes to hers. "For mine, I'm hoping he won't have to be."

Ruth nods. "I imagine this is a little like his first few days at school."

Harry's mouth twists. "With me being the gruff school principal, and Lucas and Ros the big kids."

"He'll be alright, Harry." Since she is standing beside his desk, she reaches out to place her hand on the back of his hand. It is meant as a gesture of reassurance, and he turns his hand beneath hers and grasps her fingers, his eyes on hers all the while. "We need to be discreet, Harry. The others ..."

"The others - all of them - have gone to the pub. Ros told me they're wetting the baby's head."

Ruth steps closer to him, not sure about what they should do next. She leans her hip against the desk, gazing down at him. "I overheard Ros and Lucas talking," she says, chiefly to distract her from the pull of Harry's eyes, "and they're planning to include him in the operation next Friday night."

Harry nods. "I'm not happy about it, but he needs to start somewhere, so it may as well be there."

"You have reservations?"

"We know very little about the Mostafa brothers. Their close associations are few, and yet they also mix freely in the white community. They're .. elusive."

"I have Tariq on it, Harry."

He squeezes her hand. "I know," he says, his eyes holding hers.

Ruth knows that were she to not leave for home soon, she might be convinced to stay with him and have a drink, and then who knows what might follow? She stands, and in so doing her hand slides away from his. His expression is so sad, his apparent sense of loss so profound, that Ruth finds she cannot just say goodnight and walk away. So she steps closer, leans in, and when he lifts his face to hers, she carefully places her lips on his.

The kiss doesn't last long, but it is long enough for Harry to reach out and place his hand at her waist. Ruth feels the pull of his body, warm and inviting, but the timing of the kiss is poor. She has so much to do at home, and he has a meeting. She pulls out of the kiss, and Harry drops his hand. They watch one another for the longest moment. Harry's pupils are dilated, as she's sure are hers. She wants to kiss him again - a proper kiss this time, one with passion and intent. She wants the kiss to lead them somewhere delicate, somewhere intimate, somewhere they can together create another memory just for the two of them.

They are watching each other, both of them silently urging on the other, neither of them quite brave enough to be the one to push them further. Then Harry's desk phone rings.

"Damn that phone," he breathes, turning to glare at it.

"Goodnight, Harry," she says, stepping away. "I'll see you in the morning."

Harry leans across his desk towards the phone, and while Ruth turns and slips through the door she doesn't see him lift his fingers to his lips before answering the phone. As she hurries to her desk to gather her things, she thinks that the scene in his office was an apt metaphor for their long and turbulent relationship - she'd kissed him quickly, and then she'd left. Will it ever be different?


	3. Chapter 3

7 days later - Friday evening:

He can feel Ruth's eyes on him as once more he leaves his office to check the operation's progress with Tariq in the technical suite. There is part of him wishes she'd gone home, so she can't witness his teetering on a knife edge. Another part of him is glad she'd thought to stay behind at the end of the day, although he's almost sure she's not made that choice for his benefit.

"Harry," she calls to him, as he crosses the Grid towards his office. He stands still for a moment before veering towards her desk.

"They're still waiting for the Mostafa brothers to appear," he says, grabbing a spare chair from an adjacent desk, placing it across the desk from her. He sighs as he sits, willing himself to be calm in the face of potential disaster. He can't bear it that the woman he loves is seeing him in such a state of emotional disarray.

"You need to calm down, Harry," and despite the gentleness in her tone, he can't help but panic. "If nothing else, the others will pick up on your mood, and they'll begin to wonder why you're so disturbed. You're normally so ..."

".. so cold? Unemotional? Lucas once told me that I had a heart carved from ice."

"He can talk."

Harry looks up at her then, and her eyes are on him, and what he sees in them is love for him, pure and simple. He takes a breath, and lets it out slowly, fear for his son's safety dissipating slowly.

"The person on that operation with Lucas, Tony and Ed, is Jack, and for now he's not your son, Harry. He's a young man who is spending three months with us before returning to Tunisia. Nor will he be your son until the three months is up."

Harry knows she's right. She generally is. "If anything were to happen to him, I ..." and he can't say any more. The prospect of losing his son, or of him being badly injured while working in the section is only now hitting home.

Ruth leans forward, and is about to speak, when Harry covers his face with both hands before drawing them down his face in a gesture of weariness. She'd like to comfort him, to touch his hand or his arm. She'd like to show him she will be with him if things head in the wrong direction with this operation to sting the Mostafa brothers, but he already knows that. They have an understanding - unspoken, but binding all the same.

Harry's mobile phone rings, and he pulls it from his jacket pocket. He listens, and then, while still on the phone, he stands and hurries back towards the technology suite. He leaves without having further acknowledged Ruth, but she can't afford to be offended by his oversight. She has only ever had a step son on short term loan, so she can barely imagine what level of hell Harry is living through.

* * *

At one end of Cooper's Lane, Jack Daniels stands with Tony Griffin, the latter of whom is chain smoking as the two of them pretend to be deep in conversation. Half way along the lane Lucas North and Ed Conte lean against the wall of a building at the corner of an even narrower lane which opens on to Cooper's Lane from a private wharf on the Thames. Lucas and Ed are in the shadows, only visible if you already know they are there, while Jack's job is to watch the corner near Lucas and Ed for the Mostafa brothers.

Jack sees movement from the smaller lane, and he speaks into the button microphone on his shirt. "They're here. Two of them. Middle Eastern appearance, both with beards."

Lucas and Ed stand up straight, turning to face the two men. Jack listens, and what he hears has him acting instinctively, and in this case, unwisely. Only Tony and Ed are armed, and Ed is already on the ground, and both men with beards are kicking him with all the force in their bodies.

"Jesus Christ!" Jack says, taking off towards where Lucas is attempting to take on the Mostafa brothers on his own. "Watch my back," he calls to Tony, as he runs towards the fracas.

There is only a distance of around eighty metres to run, but to Jack it feels like double that distance. Not once does he consider that he is acting outside their plan. As he sees it, the plan is history, and if they want to find out what these two are up to, the element of surprise is needed.

Afterwards, he'd not be able to say from which direction he'd heard the pistol shot, and then another. He'd felt nothing more than a sharp sting in his right shoulder, and then he'd stumbled. Time slows dramatically as he stumbles in slow motion, before rolling over so that his left shoulder hits the cobbles first. His sense of smell is heightened, and when at last his body rolls to a halt, he is aware of oil and grease, and the smell of wet bags made of jute. He tries to sit up, but hands are on him, and Tony is telling him to stay where he is.

"Play dead, mate. I'll take care of things here."

Jack closes his eyes and listens. There's shouting from Tony and Lucas, and then another shot rings out, and he hears a deep voice rattling off something in Arabic. The words are unclear, and he only knows a smattering of Arabic anyway.

Jack lies still, thinking of his father, and how disappointed the old man will be. His first operation, and he'd screwed up. For a brief moment in time, he wishes he could simply pass from this world, but that is clearly not to be his fate. Hearing footsteps hurrying towards him, he steels himself for a kicking, but nothing happens. The footsteps race past him, followed by a second set of footsteps.

Several minutes later, he hears Lucas speaking close to his ear. "That one got away, but at least we have Karim. Are you alright, mate? Need a hand? It's all over." Jack tries rolling over, but almost screams with the pain in his shoulder.

"I think I might need a hand," he says weakly.

* * *

The Grid - later the same evening:

Ruth has stayed to witness the end of the operation. As the shot which had felled Jack had rung out, she'd felt the tension in Harry's body, even though he'd been standing more than an arm's length from where she sat. Once they'd heard Lucas state the situation matter-of-factly, followed by the words, "I'll drive Jack to the hospital", Harry had quickly stood, before heading to his office.

"He's taking this one badly," Tariq had observed quietly.

"He feels responsible for our newest member," Ruth had replied. "I believe he'd promised Jack's parents he'd be in safe hands."

"Empty promises," Tariq had replied obliquely. He had heard about Section D's appalling record.

Ruth had waited fifteen minutes before heading to Harry's office, where she now stands, her hand raised to knock. She decides against knocking, and opens the door, to find the office empty. She ventures inside, and noting his keys are on his desk, while his coat hangs on the stand in the corner, she knows he can't be far away.

And he's not. She finds him on the roof balcony.

It is a cool, but not cold evening, and Harry stands at the balustrade, both hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers. Slowly she walks to his side, and lifting her eyes to his face, she sees a grim profile. She decides to wait until he speaks, and she doesn't have long to wait.

"I'm trying to devise a way to get him off the Grid and into an office somewhere."

"You can't do that. He'd hate you for it." Harry turns to give her brief eye contact. His nod is curt. "Whatever happened out there this evening, Jack is no doubt is lucky to be alive. Lesson learned, I'd say."

Again Harry nods. That he's not arguing with her tells her that he agrees. For long minutes they stand side by side in silence, and Ruth wonders should she continue airing her thoughts. Perhaps he's waiting for her to say something else, something which will ease his guilt, something wise which will soothe his aching heart.

"Whichever way I view tonight's events, I've let him down," Harry says wearily, a man close to the end of his tether.

"How do you come to that conclusion?"

Harry sighs heavily, formulating his reply. "I was the one who - eventually - gave the all clear for him to join this section, and I then signed off on him taking part in tonight's operation."

"So what you're saying, Harry, is that Jack being in hospital with a bullet wound in his shoulder is all down to you."

Harry makes a sound which sounds like a cross between a sigh and a snort. "Put like that it sounds ..."

"Ridiculous is how it sounds. Nothing which happened between Jack applying to join the section and being shot at tonight is directly your fault ... unless you wish to hark back to his conception. I'd say you had a level of responsibility there."

Ruth feels his eyes on her, so she turns towards him, to find he's staring at her, his eyebrows knitted in a frown. "That's ... an odd thing for you to say, Ruth."

"Perhaps, but you're determined to punish yourself for the outcome of tonight's operation, and if you look hard enough, you'll find reasons. I was just pointing out how ... ridiculous, and narcissistic is your line of thinking."

Harry shoves his hands even deeper into his pockets, sighing heavily. "Now you're calling me a narcissist."

"Every manager has at one time or another used narcissism to get their personal needs met. You are not immune, Harry."

Ruth had expected further argument from him, but it seems her accusations have hit their mark.

"And I'm sure, were you to quiz him about it, you'd discover that Jack doesn't see tonight's events through the same lens," she adds, in what she believes is a necessary afterthought. This time, Harry turns to face her, and nods. It is a quick and curt nod, but a nod all the same. But Ruth hasn't yet finished. "You must know that to protect a man of Jack's age from possible harm is -"

"- the very last thing he wants."

"Exactly."

Ruth decides to say nothing more until Harry again speaks. She has said quite enough. Perhaps she has said _too_ much. She has certainly been more forthright than usual. She likes Jack a lot, and she is prepared to admit to herself that she still loves Harry. To see one of them hurt, while the other blames himself is just too much hurt for her to be witnessing without sharing her views on the matter.

When Harry says nothing more, she decides it's time to share with him an important point of fact. "Earlier this week Jack approached me, asking me to `use my influence' - his words - with you. He was desperate to take part in the operation on the ground. I tried telling him that Tariq's contribution is as valuable as Lucas's, but he was determined to `get his hands dirty' - again, his words."

"Your _influence_ with me? What does he mean by that?"

"He's finished the training, and he has eyes. He's trained to notice things."

"But ... there's nothing to see .. isn't there?"

When Ruth lifts her face to him, she sees the face of a worried man. "I agree, but he's been trained to notice subtleties, and you are his father, and he probably wonders what you see in me."

"It's more likely he wonders what _you_ see in _me_ , Ruth."

"Either way, he'd be a poor spy if he couldn't interpret the nuances in our interactions."

"Little does Jack know," Harry says, "that I chose him because he needed practise in the field, and tonight's operation was meant to be relatively safe and straight forward." He stands up straight, and stretches his back by pushing his shoulder blades closer together. "I should go to the hospital to see him."

"Under normal circumstances, yes, but the circumstances are not normal. You can visit him in the morning. I think I should go tonight, even if he's asleep."

Ruth watches while all the objections and reasons he should be the one to visit the hospital pass through Harry's mind. After a couple of minutes of internal battling, Harry nods. "Very well," he says, rather formally, Ruth thinks.

"Then I'd better be on my way," she says, turning towards the doorway to the balcony.

She is stopped by Harry's hand grasping her forearm. She looks up to see his face close to hers, his eyes gentle and kind. "Thank you, Ruth."

"For what?" she replies, her eyes roaming his face.

"For coming to look for me. For listening to me. In times of stress I isolate myself. I know I'm not easy to be around during such times, but you ... you put my need to have company ahead of your own ... need to keep your distance from me for a while."

"My searching for you wasn't altogether altruistic. I wanted to see you .. to put my mind at rest. I needed to find you ... to ensure you were alright."

"Whatever the reason, thank you."

Ruth nods. It is a strange moment. Were they a couple - a proper, committed couple - they'd choose that moment to exchange a brief kiss. They stand for a long moment, simply watching the other, before Harry drops his hand from her arm, leaving her free to leave the balcony.

"I have an idea," she says carefully. "What if you drive me to the hospital, and wait in the corridor while I visit Jack.?"

For the first time that day, Ruth watches as Harry's face relaxes in a smile. He nods. "Shall we?" he says, leading her to the doorway.


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: This is a story of 6 chapters only. Thank you to the readers, and the kind reviewers of this story so far.**_

* * *

Same day - late evening:

"What's wrong, Harry?" Ruth asks. "Something's wrong."

"He asked me did I feel guilty."

"And do you?"

He nods. "He said given I'd had no part to play in his upbringing, I had no right to that guilt."

They had both visited Jack in hospital - first Ruth, and then Harry had briefly spoken to him alone. The drive to Ruth's flat had been a quiet one, with Harry answering her in monosyllables. Ruth is more aware than most of Harry's moods, but that doesn't mean that she finds them easy to navigate. Harry had bought them an Indian takeaway, and they had eaten in near silence.

Ruth turns from the counter, where she's making them each a cup of coffee. She turns to watch him as he sits at her kitchen table, his pout in full bloom, his eyes focused on his hands, which are folded on the table in front of him.

"But your guilt over this evening's events has nothing to do with his upbringing," she says quietly, handing Harry his mug, before sitting opposite him, her own mug cupped between her hands.

"I did have an involvement in his upbringing, Ruth. I just wasn't there for enough of it, and when I was there I wasn't fully present." He lifts sad eyes to her, and she detects from the depths of his sadness that he is suffering from more than fear for his son's safety in the present. Again he focuses on the mug in front of him. "I took my son and daughter camping. They were in their teens. Graham was about thirteen. Catherine hated it. She was already umbilicly attached to her hair straightener, and some boy called Trent, so she whined for most of the five days we were away. But my son loved it. He helped me pitch the tent, and he'd make the fire each evening. He even insisted we sing songs around the camp fire. Catherine perfected her eye roll on that trip. I suspect she's never forgiven me for putting her through it." He lifts his eyes, and Ruth can see that he is beginning to relax. "With the wisdom of hindsight, I should have taken Graham on his own. Unfortunately, we only went the once. Had I my time over again -"

"- you'd make the same choices." When he lifts his eyebrows in a question, she takes that as permission for her to qualify her statement. "You'd still put your job, your ambitions ahead of your children. After all, they had their mother there every day."

"A mother isn't the same as a father."

"True. We all have to make choices, and sometimes such choices are impossible."

They watch one another then, as they are both thrust back to the time when an impossible choice Harry had faced had led to the death of Ruth's partner, and then the choice he'd made to send Jo into the underground bunker, a choice which had ultimately led to her death. Some things continue to be too painful to talk about.

"Maybe one day, Harry, we can talk about ... everything, but for now, we only have today."

Harry nods, giving her the ghost of a smile. Then he reaches out with one hand, and Ruth grasps his fingers in hers, allowing their hands to rest on the tabletop. Harry passes the pad of his thumb back and forth across her knuckles while they watch one another for a long moment. It is clear to her that Harry has something to say to her, something important and personal, something he is not free to share while in their work place. She wishes he'd just say it. After all, it's just words. More important than the words spoken is the behaviour, and mostly he is a kind and supportive man. Nights like tonight, when he is experiencing depths of guilt she can only imagine, are - fortunately - rare.

"Harry .." Ruth begins, "perhaps you should just -" and she never finishes that particularly important sentence, one which had taken her minutes before she'd had the courage to begin articulating it, the ringtone of Harry's mobile phone interrupting the moment.

"Bloody phones," he says, removing his mobile from his jacket pocket, "I hate the bloody things. _Yes,_ " he barks into the phone, as he gets to his feet and wanders into the living room from the kitchen.

Ruth overhears enough to know that the caller is Lucas, and that he has details about the outcome of the evening's operation. When the call is over, Harry returns to the kitchen, again sitting at the table, but this time choosing a chair closer to where Ruth sits. Tentatively he reaches his hand towards her, and she allows him to curl his fingers around hers. His grateful smile makes her gesture worth it.

"And?" she asks, hoping he is able to accurately interpret her meaning.

"Waleed Mostafa got away at the scene. He knew the terrain better than Lucas, who returned to the lane to offer assistance to Jack. From where he was on the ground, Ed grabbed Karim Mostafa around the ankles, bringing him down, which had him falling badly, so that he dislocated his shoulder. Meanwhile, Tony ventured down the lane, and to the Thames, to find not only a cache of imported automatic weapons, but around a dozen illegals hiding beneath the deck of a barge. All were young men under the age of thirty, and all were either Egyptian or Libyan. The problem for the Mostafa brothers was that they were meant to be met by a couple of dealers, who failed to show up. So ... they not only lost the sale, but they were apparently betrayed by someone who'd overheard Karim Mostafa speaking to a UK based small arms dealer."

"I believe that Ros and Jack had already spoken to two men who'd overheard such a meeting."

"They'd become over-confident, and with cockiness comes carelessness. It's only a matter of time before we pick up the other Mostafa brother."

Ruth hesitates before she speaks, dropping her eyes for a moment. "Aren't these brothers ... small fry, Harry? It's not as though they've imported enough arms to stage a major terrorist attack."

"They are, but every little bit counts, and now we have the name of at least one person who deals with arms and illegals at this end. Ali Khalil. He also buys women illegals, and sets them up in brothels. The women are promised riches and freedom, and rarely see either."

"So, despite Jack's injury, the operation was largely a success."

"I'd call it that, although the Home Secretary might not agree. He's more invested in the numbers and the money." Harry twists his mouth in a lop-sided grin. "Andrew Lawrence, despite his worship of all things cool, is still an ambitious little shit."

Ruth nods, hiding her shock at his blunt assessment of their esteemed HS. She has no doubt Harry is right.

* * *

In another part of the city, Ros Myers, accompanied by Tony Griffin, who has already had a long and physically taxing day, are sitting in a late night coffee venue sipping black coffees. While Tony is prattling to Ros about their newest field operative, Ros pretends to ignore him while touching up her lipstick. In the small square mirror of Ros's cosmetic compact, she is watching the man in the corner booth behind them. When she has the man and his two companions all within the frame of the mirror, she presses the button beside the blue eye shadow, and the image is sent directly to the hard drive of Tariq Masood. To be on the safe side she presses the button once more, and a second image is sent.

"How are things, sweetheart?" Tony says, leaning dangerously close to Ros.

"Call me sweetheart again, and you'll be changing your name to Antonia."

Tony grins, and pulls away. "I love a scary woman."

"Then we're made for each other," Ros says, standing. "I have what I need. Time to head home."

"Together?"

"Only if you have a death wish."

As they leave the coffee house, Ros strides ahead, her face expressionless, while Tony chuckles to himself. He hasn't enjoyed himself this much since his wayward teenage years.

"Right," Ros says, once they're clear of the coffee shop, "here's where we part company. I'll see you in the morning," and she turns on her heel and walks away.

Tony watches her until she's lost in the crowd outside a pub. He thinks that it's a shame there are not more women in the world like Ros Myers.

* * *

While Harry had been on the phone, Ruth had made them each a fresh mug of coffee, so that once Harry had shared the gist of Lucas's phone call, they sit in silence over their coffee. The charged atmosphere from before Lucas had called Harry has dissipated, but both would be happy were it to return. Harry is just about to say something when again his phone rings. He throws Ruth an apologetic look, and she nods slightly in reply. He has no control over who calls him, and he is a section head, after all.

This time Harry stays seated while he takes the call. It is a thankfully brief call, which he ends with the words, "Thank you for that, Ros." He pockets his phone, and then leans his forearms on the table, his hands encircling his mug of coffee. Ruth would rather he once more hold her hand, but if people keep interrupting them, they may never return to the hand-holding. "Ros and Tony tracked down Ali Khalil to an Egyptian coffee house. He was in the company of two other men of Arabic appearance, so she photographed them, and sent their images straight through to Tariq, whom I'm told is still working."

"He'll spend the night at work. He usually does after an operation." She sits back, putting further distance between them. "So, apart from Jack's injury, the operation has been a success."

"It would seem so. The mop-up will take place over the next few days. I've asked that, pending something out of the ordinary occurring, Lucas or Ros ring me with a verbal report on Sunday evening."

"Aren't you even a little bit curious?"

Harry shakes his head slowly, his eyes holding hers. "No. Jack's injury has put everything into perspective. And then there's you."

His last sentence takes Ruth by surprise, leaving her uncharacteristically tongue-tied. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing emerges. Whatever does he mean by that? Well, she probably does know, but she'd rather not form a conclusion which may not be true. " _Me_?" she says at last.

"Yes, Ruth, you." Suddenly he sits up straight, and runs the fingers of one hand through what little hair he has. "And as much as I'd like to explore the subject further, time is against me. It's late, and I have a full day tomorrow."

Having said all he is about to say on `the subject', Harry watches her closely. Why can't he just come out and say what he means? Why allude to the subject of `them', only to immediately drop it because he has to go home?

Harry gets up from his chair, and Ruth indicates his mug of coffee. "You've barely touched it," she says.

Harry looks at his almost-full mug, shakes his head, and then leaves the kitchen, so that she almost has to run after him to catch up.

Harry reaches the front door first, and turns towards Ruth, gazing down at her. What little light there is filters through from the kitchen, so that the nuances in their facial expressions are hidden in the shadows. For the first time, Ruth notices the lines of tension and exhaustion around Harry's mouth and eyes. As he watches her watching him, he appears to relax slightly.

"Please drive carefully," she says quietly.

"I will."

"Ring me when you get home, otherwise I'll worry."

Harry's smiles into her eyes, and then nods. He takes a step towards her, so she reaches up and places one hand on his cheek. His skin is warm, and beneath her fingers she feels the beginnings of stubble. She scrapes a fingernail gently across the stubble, and they both smile at the scratchy sound it makes. He bends his head to hers, and the kiss is light and gentle, but is soon over.

One quick kiss is not nearly enough for her, so she places her other hand on his other cheek, effectively entrapping him. As she reaches up to place her lips on his she presses her body against him. It is that last movement which breaks him. This kiss is different. It is a proper kiss, his belly pressed against her abdomen, while he sighs into her mouth. Their tongues meet, winding around each other, and Harry's hands slide down her back to her buttocks, where he grasps her and pulls her flush against him. Ruth's hands no longer cradle his face; they are wound around his neck, with the fingers of one hand sliding up into the hair on the back of his head.

It is when she feels him swelling against her belly, and her body responds with a surge of heat, that she decides perhaps they have gone far enough for one night. She begins to slowly and carefully pull out of the kiss. They are still standing very close, watching one another wordlessly. Ruth again touches his cheek with her hand before trailing her fingers to his chin, and then down his neck. She feels him shudder beneath her touch. Ruth wonders is he thinking what she is thinking, and that if they can kiss like that, then what they will some day soon share in the bedroom will be worth waiting for.

Taking a breath, Harry steps away from her, severing their body contact. In the half light his eyes are dark, and his breathing still heavy. "Goodnight, Ruth," he says, and then he is gone, and Ruth presses her forehead against the closed door, listening for the sound of his car door, and then the growling of the engine as it kicks over.

As she tidies the kitchen, rinsing their mugs under the hot water tap, she contemplates the irony of Harry's son having joined Section D. In some strange way, and without his knowledge, Jack Daniels has, in an act of unconscious sorcery, woven a spell around her and Harry, so that they have suddenly and remarkably moved closer, until neither are prepared to ignore the powerful attraction they have for one another.

Ruth ambles through her pre-bedtime rituals, then climbs into bed, reading a few pages from the book on her bedside table until her phone rings. Noting the identity of the caller she breathes out her relief.

"I'm home in one piece," is all he says.

Ruth smiles. "I can sleep now," she replies.

They end the call there. They are both so tired, and everything they need to say has been conveyed in just nine words. Ruth closes her eyes. It is a very long time since she has experienced such contentment.


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N: M-ish in parts.**_

* * *

Next morning - Saturday:

A little after ten-thirty Ruth arrives on the Grid just as Harry is preparing to leave for the hospital. As she enters his office he is standing behind his desk, checking that he has all he needs. He looks up at her, and she catches the softening in his eyes, while his body appears wired with anticipation.

"Go," she says. "There are enough of us here to fill your shoes adequately."

His mouth twists in that familiar way he has, and he stands, patting his pockets one last time. "Now, will I need my coat, do you think?"

"It's sunny out. Besides, you'll be in your car, and then inside the hospital. The weather is barely relevant."

He has been watching her closely while she speaks, and Ruth is sure she detects a hunger there. "Have you eaten?" she asks, wondering why she'd thought to ask that.

"Toast and coffee at six-thirty."

She nods, realising that she's in danger of sounding like a wife. In many ways, she has been his wife for some time. No other person, other than perhaps Ros, seems to care for Harry's well-being, and yet they all rely on him so heavily.

He quickly leaves the office, glancing at her as he passes. She thinks of reaching out to touch him, but the office blinds are open, and the team members have eyes. When he is gone, the Grid seems smaller and quieter, like the engine had left the engine room.

Once settled at her work station, Ruth's mind wanders to the evening before, and how easily she and Harry had slotted themselves together. She could feel sad and annoyed about all the time they've lost, time when they could have been together, _should_ have been together. In the light of a new day, Ruth knows that the timing for this to be happening had never been quite right, and perhaps Jack Daniels working in their team _had_ been a catalyst, or perhaps his arrival has nothing to do with it. What she knows now is that she has had to be sure about Harry, sure that he wants the same thing she does, sure that he's someone she could spend her life with, although `life' always reminds her of a gaol sentence, and hopefully a life spent with Harry would not parallel a stretch in gaol. Ruth has always needed time in which to consider her decisions. And being an affair of the heart, and the object of her interest being her boss, she's needed to be damn sure, with no reservations. And she is now, and so in her estimation, the time they have taken to get here can never be considered time wasted. It's just that they have had a long and circuitous, often painful courtship.

"Ruth?" Tariq appears from nowhere. The ghost who walks.

"Tariq?"

"I need you to check my findings. I'm not sure I've come to the correct conclusion."

"You've been here all night?"

"Yeah. I thought I should."

So, with a task which requires her focus, Ruth's mind changes tack.

* * *

By the time Harry reaches the third floor, his son is out of intensive care, and into a recovery room. Harry stands at the window, watching his son - Jack Daniels - as his vitals are checked by a male nurse. This same nurse, whose name tag announces him to be Nathan Dayman, joins Harry just outside the door, speaking to him in the distinct flat tones of an Australian accent, while returning his pen to the breast pocket of his scrubs. "Jack has come through surgery well," he says, glancing through the window to where Jack is staring at them, knowing they're talking about him. "They found two bullets, so the surgery was longer than expected, and there was more damage than at first thought, but he's young and resilient, and he should be fine in a few days, a week tops." And then Nathan Dayman hurries off down the corridor to his next patient.

Without the distraction of the nurse, Harry turns towards the window to see Jack still watching him. Seeing the slight nod of Jack's head, he opens the door and crosses the room to the bed, where he sits in the chair Jack indicates with a flick of his eyes. So far, so good. Jack appears drained, although his eyes are sharp. His right arm is heavily bandaged and wrapped, so that even had he wanted to move it, he couldn't.

"How do you feel?" Harry asks, immediately regretting the banality of his question. "I forgot to bring grapes," he adds, hoping Jack understands that he his struggling to make an apology.

"I'm not hungry, and I feel nothing," Jack says. "I'm on pain meds."

Harry nods. "I should have vetoed your taking part in the operation."

Jack's eyes flash, and Harry recognises that look as anger. "Why? To _protect_ me?"

Harry finds that he's smiling, and he knows he'd better explain himself, and fast. "In a way," he says quickly. "I was thinking more of your mother's reaction when she finds out."

"Why should she? As you were standing outside, discussing me with that nurse, I was mentally composing a cover story for my mother ... the real one, not the missionary somewhere in Sudan."

Harry nods. "She can read people's minds. You know that, don't you?" Harry is relieved to see Jack's lips twist in a smile. It is only when Jack smiles that any paternal resemblance is evident, and even then one would have to be watching closely to catch it. "She'll know something is wrong, and she'll question you until you give in and confess."

"I'm told that when the wound heals, there will be only a small scar. It's inside, beneath the skin that the damage was done, which hopefully will be healed by the time I see her."

Harry nods. His own messy shoulder wound had been from a shotgun, and so pellets were sprayed over a much larger area, and each one had had to be removed.

"I'm told I'm to stay for another night, and I can return to work as soon as I feel well enough. Tariq has offered me his spare room."

Harry lifts his eyebrows. "Tariq has a spare room?"

"More of a cupboard with a bed."

"Tariq's a good lad."

"I like him. I thought I might pick his brains before I return to university."

"You've decided?"

Jack nods. "I'm considering it."

Harry nods, saying nothing. Privately he's relieved. He's not sure that he would survive another operation were Jack taking part on the ground. They sit in silence for a minute or so, before Jack speaks, changing the subject.

"I'm sorry about what I said to you last night, about your .. guilt. What I said was out of order." Harry lifts his eyes, clearly surprised. "It was the pain talking .. and the indignity. I was embarrassed about having made a mess of my very first operation."

"Everyone messes up on their first operation, and often their second, third and fourth as well."

"Did you?"

"Rather spectacularly. Sometimes things get out of control, so there is no way they can be fixed. It's often not possible to make the best decision, especially when you don't possess all the information. Sometimes the best option is not on offer." Harry's eyes wander around the room as he chooses his words. "Look at it this way. Your actions last night may have been unwise, and potentially fatal for you, but it brought everything to a rapid conclusion, and often that's a good thing."

"I reacted instinctively," Jack explains. "When I was at school, I witnessed a kid being thrown on the ground and kicked, and I failed to intervene. Last night, I suppose I just ... snapped."

"It happens," is all Harry says.

Jack watches Harry for a moment longer, and then turns his head away. He still appears displeased with himself. "Haven't you somewhere better to be?" he asks at last.

"Do you want me to leave?"

"Not really. This is probably the longest conversation we've ever had."

"I'm sure that's not true," Harry replies quickly.

"Do you want to leave?" Jack asks.

"No, but -"

"There's always a but."

"I have a meeting to attend," he says, "whether I want to or not."

"You want to."

Harry sighs heavily. He _has_ a meeting, but he'd rather be returning to the Grid to see Ruth. Were Ruth to be a fly on the wall of this hospital room, she'd advise him to stay with his son. How long will it be before they're presented with another opportunity like this? Their chances of snatching some time together during the remainder of Jack's time on Section D is close to zero.

"Go," Jack says, and this time his voice carries none of the resentment which had coloured their interactions. "Besides, I imagine you'll want to get back to the Grid to see Ruth."

His sharp observation shocks Harry, and he imagines that his surprise shows. He decides it's best to not rise to the bait. It is in his best interests to protect what he and Ruth have ... whatever it is, because he's not sure he has the words to describe it.

Once Harry leaves, Jack lays back and closes his eyes. The whole of his right shoulder and arm is numb. Being around Harry always exhausts him. The man is a machine - constantly on the go, highly productive, while never allowing his emotions to show. Jack knows he'll never have his father's full approval, but he's only now beginning to see that such approval would be tainted by how Harry views the world, and he'd rather not be the kind of man who views the world as something which needs saving.

What he now knows is that he hasn't the right to keep blaming Harry for his own shortcomings as a man. Clearly his father and he are different kinds of men, and he'd best try to get to know the man as he is, rather than complain about him not being the kind of father he'd always wanted. Jack decides that it's high time he grew up.

* * *

Same day - evening:

Harry glances around his kitchen, not even sure he's hungry enough to rustle up a meal of eggs-with-something. The impromptu meeting with three other JIC members had provided sandwiches, and he'd snacked on them with little enthusiasm, or even the memory of what he'd eaten. Prior to that he'd attended a long and tedious meeting with the Foreign Secretary, and one of the Home Secretary's minions, both of whom had quizzed him about the apparent increase in the number of illegal firearms finding their way into the UK. Harry had had few answers. With extra staff on the ground he might be able to do something, but they'd not be interested in increasing his budget. They never are.

He hasn't seen Ruth since mid-morning, and more than anything, he longs to see her. Absently, he makes himself a strong mug of coffee, then sits at his kitchen table, before taking out his phone. Without being aware of having made the decision to do so, he calls a familiar number.

"Harry? Is something wrong?" Ruth answers with barely suppressed wariness.

"The only thing wrong right now is that I am home alone, while I'm supposing you're also at home."

"It's almost nine. Where else would I be?"

"I thought all young people spent Saturday night out on the town."

"One, I'm no longer considered young, and two, I'm not sure anyone says `out on the town' any more."

The lightness in her voice gives him courage. "Can you come here ... to mine? I ... miss you."

The need - or not - for Ruth to bring an overnight bag had not been discussed, so Harry is pleased when just under an hour later she arrives at his front door with one in her hand.

"I thought I might, er .. well, it's late, so I _assumed_ , actually, which I shouldn't have, since .. you know, it's not my place to -"

" _Ruth_ ," he says firmly, thankfully stopping the flow of her near incomprehensible apology. "It's alright. I would have suggested it, but I also didn't want to assume anything. I'm glad ... _relieved_ that you have assumed on behalf of us both."

"I've also assumed you have a spare room," she prattles on as he leads her straight to the kitchen.

Harry stops dead, so that Ruth almost runs into the back of him. He slowly turns to face her. "While you are free to sleep wherever you like tonight, Ruth, I would have thought ... hoped ... that your preference would be to sleep in my bed." The silence which follows his clear statement of intent has him panicking. "I'm sorry. That was rude of me. You're free to sleep wherever you want, and should you choose to return home to sleep, then -"

"Harry - stop - _please_!"

They stand close together in the doorway to Harry's kitchen. Neither dare speak in case they say the wrong thing. Harry suddenly turns and heads towards the kitchen counter. "I have red wine," he says. "Would you like a glass?"

Ruth appears relieved for the distraction. They are both relieved. Harry pours them each a glass, and they sit at his kitchen table, sipping the wine, and talking about their respective days. They are comfortable with this, since it's something they do often, although not yet in Harry's kitchen; that is a first. While they chat, content at last, Ruth's overnight bag sits on the floor just inside the door, its presence so eloquent, promising so much more.

After a brief lull in conversation, Ruth again mentions the overnight bag. "I shouldn't have brought it with me," she says, dropping her eyes to her wine glass, "not without talking to you about it first."

"Ruth, you know as well as I do that our discussing the matter is unlikely to shine any clear light on it."

At least Harry knows that Ruth wants and expects something to happen tonight, and he believes that they should simply follow their instincts, and leave talking for another time. They have talked about safe subjects, and Harry thinks it's time they took a few risks with one another.

"Did you think of me while you were away .. in exile?"

"Most days," she says, not looking up.

"And while you were in Cyprus?" Ruth's eyes, dark with some strong emotion, dart up to meet his. Perhaps he has taken a step too far. Her nod is so slight he almost misses it. "How often?" he asks.

"Often enough."

The air is heavy with tension, so Harry gets up to unwrap a packet of brie, arranging it on a plate with some cherry tomatoes, olives, and cracker biscuits. He believes they need something to soak up the wine. With his back to her, he doesn't have to see her eyes. He grabs the wine bottle, and after placing the plate on the table between them, he takes the bottle to Ruth's side, and tops up her glass. He is surprised that she had almost finished her first glass, when he has barely touched his.

He looks down at her to see she has lifted her face to him, and her pupils are dark. His eyes drop to her throat, exposed by the wide neckline of her blouse, and then they drop further to the swell of her breasts. He is beginning to feel rather warm. When he feels her hand on the back of his thigh he almost drops the bottle of wine. He lifts his eyes to hers. When her hand slowly moves down his thigh, and then back again, a surge of heat passes through his body, and he breathes deeply in an attempt to bring his body under his control. Watching her closely, he waits, while her hand remains on the back of his thigh, her fingertips caressing his inner thigh; only the fabric of his trousers separates her hand from his skin.

He would dearly love to reach down and kiss her - on her lips, her throat, her cleavage - but he is savouring the moment, waiting for her to decide where to take this.

But it is Harry who moves next. He hadn't planned to say anything, but the words just fall from his lips. "I love you," he says, leaning closer to her.

"And I love you," Ruth replies, dropping her hand from his thigh as she stands, stepping so close to him that he has to wind his arms around her, and pull her against him.

What happens next is so fluid, so easy, so natural that he has no explanation for why it hadn't happened years ago. They wind themselves together, their lips seeking the lips of the other. Harry's hand finds its way under her skirt, where he grasps the back of her thigh, sliding his palm up and down her smooth skin, until he reaches the edge of her underwear, where he slips one finger beneath the elastic, touching moist skin, drawing a gasp from Ruth.

Needing to come up for air, they pull apart, and he notices most of his shirt buttons are open, and Ruth's eyes are dark with want, her hair awry. He's never desired her more. "Where's your bedroom?" is all she says. Even in the height of passion, Ruth can be relied upon to organise him.

They stumble upstairs together, wine and snacks forgotten, the kitchen light still on. Stopping on the first landing, they again begin kissing, their hands seeking the skin of the other. When he feels Ruth's hand on the front of his trousers, he quickly pulls out of the kiss. "Not here," he whispers, his mouth beside her ear.

When they reach his bedroom, he is relieved that he is a tidy man, and that when they tumble onto the bed together, the bed is made, the duvet crisp and smooth. But not for long. They quickly discard their clothing, and then climb under the duvet together, hands and lips devouring one another.

"Are you sure about this?" Harry says, hesitating before they go any further.

"Are you mad?" is all she says in reply, before she winds her legs around him, drawing him to her before he buries himself inside her.

* * *

It had been Ruth's idea to run a bath, and she'd insisted he join her. As difficult as it had been to drag himself from his bed, and the comfort of her arms, he is now glad he had. He lies back, the water covering him to mid-chest, while Ruth lays against him, her head resting on his shoulder. This is bliss. He closes his eyes, relaxed and content, his body sated, the woman he loves close to him.

They have been in the bath together for some time, saying little, their bodies loose and warm, when Ruth suddenly sits up and steps from the bath. He watches while she dries herself, taking a dressing gown from the hook on the back of the door. He knows she'll have a reason for leaving him like this.

"Don't go anywhere," she says, leaning down to kiss him, before she leaves the bathroom.

Once more Harry closes his eyes, listening to the sounds drifting upstairs from the kitchen below - cupboard doors opening and closing, the clattering of utensils on the sink top, the familiar sound of toast popping up in the toaster. He sighs. He can't remember when last he'd been this happy.

When Ruth again appears she carries a tray. He has no idea where she'd found it; he'd forgotten he possessed a tray. On the tray are two mugs of steaming coffee, and a large plate of buttered toast.

"I love a midnight snack," she says, her voice as excited as a child's.

So Harry sits up, while Ruth perches herself on a chair beside the bath, while they munch on toast, and sip their coffee.

"I'm glad you brought your overnight bag," he says, popping the last of the toast into his mouth.

Ruth wrinkles her nose at him. "Where would you be without me?" she asks playfully.

He shakes his head. The answer to that question is one he knows all too well. "Were I to lose you again, Ruth, I'd not want to go on."

Neither say anything more on the matter. They both know that a long and happy future together may not happen for them. Given how tenuous their lives are, today may be all they have.


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N: This is the final chapter. Thank you to readers, followers, and especially to those of you who have left reviews.**_

* * *

10 weeks later - Friday evening:

"Have pubs always been this noisy, or are my ears more sensitive?" Ruth turns to him, her stare eloquent, as he stands beside her, looking around the room for familiar faces. "What?" he says.

"I suspect that pubs are getting louder, Harry."

He grins, leaning towards her to place a quick kiss on her cheek. "My clever Ruth."

Seeing a hand waving above the throng, their eyes are drawn to the farthest corner of the room. "That looks like one of ours," says Ruth.

"You make it sound like they're our children."

"In a way they are," she says quickly, as they push through a wall of bodies, comments following them all the way, some apologetic, but most annoyed, some aggressive, along with a few smutty remarks directed at Ruth.

One man grabs Ruth's arm in an attempt to halt her progress. "Leave your dad, and come with me, darlin'. I'll show you a good time"

Feeling Ruth being dragged from him, Harry takes a step back, sliding his bulk between her and the man. "Take your hand off her," he snarls, enunciating the words slowly in an icy voice, his body language threatening.

With that, the man drops his hand from Ruth's arm, and the crowd parts, providing them with an easy passage across the room. Ruth has just had a brief glimpse of the other side of Harry, one she is aware exists, but almost never sees. How quickly the menacing persona is tucked away, to be replaced by the gentle man she has come to know and love.

Once they've crossed the room, Lucas looms over them as he greets them, before directing them to two spare chairs between Jack and Tariq. Ruth steps back, allowing Harry the seat next to Jack, while she slides into the chair next to Tariq.

She feels the warmth of Harry's hand on her shoulder, and she turns to face him. "Drink?"

"White wine, thanks," she replies.

"I'll miss Jack when he leaves," Tariq says close to her ear.

"But isn't he staying with you?"

"Only for another week or two. He's managed to wriggle out of returning to Tunisia - something about compassionate leave - and he's going to Warwick uni to do his Masters." Ruth nods. She's surprised Jack has shared this detail with Tariq, but she imagines that Jack will want to maintain contact with the techie. "I rather like him. He's quiet, and doesn't try to be someone he's not. I respect that," Tariq continues.

Ruth thinks she has just shared the longest exchange she's ever had with Tariq. Beside her, Harry has returned to their table with a white wine for her, and a whiskey for himself.

While Harry speaks quietly with Jack, and Tariq is engaged in conversation with his chief assistant, Nate, Ruth watches the others - Ros, Lucas, Tony, Ed, and Aidan, a young field agent hired to replace Jack. Ruth is content to observe the others. After all, her skills of observation are stellar, and even finer than her organisational skills.

A little while later, just as Lucas has placed a third glass of wine on the table in front of her, Ruth heads to the ladies' loos. When she leaves the cubicle to wash her hands, she finds Ros leaning her hip against the basins, waiting for her.

"I just thought you should know," Ros says, her expression serious, "that I know Jack Daniels' true identity."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ruth says, peering at her own reflection in the mirror, hoping Ros will drop the subject and leave.

"I'm sure Harry would have confided in you. If he didn't, then I'd be divorcing him about now."

Ruth glances at Ros's reflection in the mirror. "How did you know? Did he tell you?"

"No-one told me. It was the day he accompanied me to interview a couple of possible assets .. in his first week on the job. I asked him to interview the more cooperative of the two assets, and when he stepped into interview mode, it was like watching Harry at work. Jack pushed his chin out and chatted away like the guy was his mate. He was a natural."

Ruth finds that she's smiling. She has also noticed there are times when the son resembles his father, even if only for a couple of seconds. They share some mannerisms, and to the close observer, these are hard to miss "Don't tell either Harry or Jack. They're both in denial."

Ros offers her a rare smile. "My lips are sealed."

"Does anyone else on the Grid know?"

"If they do, they haven't told me."

* * *

As if responding to a silent call, most of the group from Section D stand and shuffle about, announcing that they're `moving on'. Ruth says goodnight to them each in turn, and they all say a special goodbye to Jack, who stands to shake their hands, and receive a back slap or two, before returning to his seat beside Harry. By ten o'clock, only she, Harry and Jack remain at the table, so they move their chairs to the farthest corner of the table, away from other hotel patrons.

"I hope this means I can be Graham again," Harry's son says. Harry has headed to the bar for more drinks for the three of them, so Graham and Ruth are alone. "I'm assuming you know my true identity, Ruth."

"I do. Harry ... confided in me before you joined us. I hope you don't mind, but he needed to tell someone. He was worried about you."

Graham nods, and Ruth notes that like his father, he smiles only rarely. When Harry returns to the table with drinks, Ruth and Graham fall silent.

"Don't stop talking just because I'm here," Harry says.

"I'd just said to Ruth that I hope I can now be Graham again." Ruth notices how warily Graham speaks when addressing his father. It is as though he is still expecting disapproval. She finds that sad, and makes a decision to chat to Harry about it.

"You can," Harry says, taking a sip from his own glass, "although I wouldn't be retiring Jack Daniels quite yet."

"What do you mean?"

"You did well, son," and Ruth notices the rising colour on Graham's cheeks as he struggles to accept Harry's praise. What a messy relationship these two men must have had. "You stuck it out after that tricky operation with the Mostafa brothers. Most would have decided that the job wasn't worth the risk of being shot."

Graham twists his mouth in a half smile, another gesture he shares with Harry. "I wouldn't have walked away, even had I lost both legs, and had my bollocks shot off."

"Let's hope you never have to test that declaration," and both men smile before lifting their drinks in the direction of the other. "Once you finish your Masters," Harry continues, carefully placing his drink on the coaster in front of him, "you could work for Five ... as a Technical Officer who does the occasional bit of field work."

Graham nods, and Ruth detects how overwhelmed he is by Harry's suggestion. She reaches under the table and places her palm on Harry's thigh, giving his leg a quick squeeze. He responds by sliding his own hand under the table and grasping her fingers. He turns to her and smiles.

"Thanks," Graham says at last. "I'll keep that in mind."

"I've written a report on you, which will go in your file. I need you to know that I've recommended you for further duty when and if you want it."

Again Graham nods, stuck for words, and again Ruth squeezes Harry's leg. She has an idea that she's bearing witness to a minor miracle.

"All you have to concern yourself with now is how to keep the events of the past twelve weeks from your mother," Harry says after a long and eloquent silence.

"She already knows. She also knows that I was shot, although I didn't share any details with her when I dropped in on her last weekend."

Harry's face shows shock, surprise, and then admiration. "And you lived through that revelation?"

"She was fine with it, or as fine as she is ever is about my .. exploits. She said something like, `on your head be it, young man'. All in all, she handled it quite well. She's not difficult when you're upfront with her. It's deception she hates."

Harry resists an urge to squirm in his seat, overly aware of the warm and comforting hand on his thigh.

"I'm with your mother," Ruth says suddenly. "Deception is also one of my pet hates. The truth may hurt, but it's always the best strategy."

"Other than when you're a spy," Graham says with a grin, and Harry is relieved, his words having broken the tension.

* * *

When the three of them leave the pub, an hour has passed, and whatever tension had been present earlier has lifted. They stand together on the pavement, Harry and Ruth standing close, with Graham facing them. Harry is about to say goodbye to his son, and may not see him again for several months.

"We can drop you somewhere," Harry says, "anywhere you like."

"Thanks, but no. I had a call from Holly, and she wants to talk. I'll take a taxi to hers."

"Good," Harry says, nodding. "That's good news. You won't be able to hide from her that you were shot," he adds, grinning.

"Here's hoping," Graham says.

"Keep in touch then," Harry says, touching his son's arm.

"I will," and Graham grabs Harry's upper arm and squeezes it.

Father and son stand for an awkward moment, neither sure how the other would welcome a hug, when Ruth steps forward, reaching out to hug Graham, before placing a quick kiss on his cheek. "Don't be a stranger," she whispers to him. "Your father doesn't quite know how to say that he'd love to see you some time ... away from the Grid."

"Preferably not in a hospital."

"That would be best, yes."

"I'll be off then," Graham says, once Ruth has stepped away from him, and back to Harry's side, where she grasps his hand.

They both wave as he strides off down the street, then around the corner and out of sight. Harry lets out a deep sigh, mostly of relief. His son is still in one piece, and his ex-wife has not ordered a contract be taken out on him.

He turns to Ruth, leaning closer to place a chaste kiss on her forehead. "You'll come home with me?" he asks, confident she'll say yes.

"Just try and stop me." They turn in the other direction, towards the pub car park, where Harry's car is parked. "Graham will be fine, Harry. He's too much like you to not succeed."

Harry stops suddenly, turning towards Ruth. They are standing directly beneath a streetlight, the light from which illuminates the surprise on Harry's face. "What did you just say?"

"That your son is like you, and now he knows what he wants, he'll do well. He won't mess up his life again. He has too much to lose."

"Such as?"

"The lovely Holly."

"You've met her?"

Ruth shakes her head. "He showed me a photograph of her. She has short, blond curly hair, and she looks lovely. She has a face which promises tolerance and forgiveness. It was his drug and alcohol use she objected to." Ruth hesitates before looking into Harry's eyes. "And he doesn't want to risk losing your love and approval."

"Did he tell you that too?"

"No. It was obvious whenever the two of you were together. That's all he wants, Harry. It's all he's ever wanted."

Harry's forehead wrinkles in a frown. "So .. he applied to work in our section to prove his worth to me?" Ruth nods. "And maybe also to annoy me."

"I'd say so."

"Well, he succeeded on both counts."

"And don't forget that he frightened you also."

"How can I ever forget?"

"And that he walked away from it, believing he can do anything. He now believes himself invincible, Harry."

Harry stares long and hard at Ruth before reaching out to draw her to him. They stand on the pavement in a close embrace, his arms enveloping her, Ruth's face pressed into his neck. Despite the number of people passing by them, miraculously, no-one bumps them or runs into them.

When at last they pull away, Ruth asks, "Can we go home now?"

He nods. "I want to take you home to bed."

"Good. That's good," she says, as they hurry together towards the car park.


End file.
